A small project started by a teen turned into a full blown life mission. A cathartic creative outlet, mixed with body positive discussions, sprinkled with sass. Here is our delicious self-love cake. Want a piece?

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1/9/14

Disfigured: A Short Story

Hello my darlings:)I'm incredibly busy right now, so I apologize for the lack of interesting articles!But I recently collaborated with my friend Adelaide on a short story. I present to you the first few pages, hopefully if you like it I will post the rest as we write on.Please share it if you like it! Have a wonderful day, my beauties<3

He
was looking directly at it. God, could he possibly be less subtle? Although I
do enjoy his technique more than that of the people who feel that, out of
respect for my scar or some shit like that, they should avoid my face in its
entirety. This seemingly logical strategy results in many of my conversational
partners staring off into deep space during our chats, as if they were
pondering the philosophical meaning of such deep inquiries as our math
homework.

But at this very moment, I was
only dealing with a level 1 glarer. And just like clockwork, 12 seconds after
the beginning of our talk, my friend anxiety conducted his famous magic trick;
the rising flame act, which consisted of making an aggressively red color rise
from the bottom of my neck to the tip of my ears. Deep breaths, I told myself,
focus on your breathing, look away, do not
panic, but all efforts in vain, as usual. I gathered my books, mumbled some
excuse and bolted out of our locker row.

You
would think that after being disfigured for almost 4 years now, a girl would
get used to the weird looks, the untimely comments and the snickering echoes.
But that only happens in the pamphlets, where the survivor is so proud of her
uniqueness that she gives conferences to teenagers everywhere and becomes a
hero, a bloody inspiration. Yeah, right.

But
back to the now; I was sweeping by undistinguishable faces, blurred by my lack
of breathing and its resulting dizziness, tossing all bystanders aside, caring
less and less about the casualties as I approached my trusty handicap bathroom
stall. I know, being defaced isn’t technically a handicap, but since no one
dares question my reasons for using it, I’m not going to let a perfectly
practical sanctuary go to waste. I’ll occasionally get some curious
expressions, adorned with question-mark shaped eyebrows and frown lines, but
what else is new. I’m disgusting.

I entered the dark room to find this slutty
10th grade couple going at it, and sure enough, when I turned on the
lights and they spun around in fear to find me standing at the threshold, the
girl screamed. Oh, the might it took to stop my fists from gently bashing into
her obnoxiously normal face. I shooed them out, and what monster says goes.

So
I found myself alone at last in this far-too familiar bathroom. I pivoted my
head towards the mirror, and breathed a long sigh of relief. This
barely-used-for-its-intents-and-purposes lavatory was seldom cleaned, thus
leaving its mirror filthy with fingerprints and hairspray, and I loved it so.
You see, my instincts failed me on a daily basis, directing my eyes towards the
nearest reflective object, and leaving me breathlessly horrified at the sight
of my reflection. But not this mirror, no, for all I could see through the
haziness were vague shapes and colors, and for a single blink-and-it’s-gone
moment, I looked pretty. The washed-out blond lion mane that is my hair somehow
manifested itself as an angelic halo, caressing my delicate features, which is
a phrase that seems foreign to my tongue nowadays.

I
kneeled down on the grimy floor tiles, took a hiccupping breath, and wept. I
didn’t cry, crying was for people whose feelings only stabbed a little. I oozed
pain, I leaked despair. Every little piece of my body was aching, my hands were
shaking. I couldn’t even hold myself up anymore, so I completed my
disintegration by collapsing to the floor, clutching on to my books as if they
too would try and flea from my atrocity.

Why does every moment have
to be so hard, I thought to myself, as I rose from the ground and dusted myself off.
These episodic collapses weren’t exactly rare, and they, unfortunately, weren’t
getting less frequent as time went on, like Dr Rashad promised. It was his entire damn fault, too, the least he could do
was keep his promises.

I
guess maybe you could consider it luck, like that stupid pamphlet girl probably
would, that monstrosity hit a girl already lacking a reason to live. Less to
lose, I guess. Because when you think about it, there are people in this world
that have so much to lose, like friends, family, jobs, happiness. I mean, the
cashier at Metro tells me that maybe I should be thankful that God picked me, a crappy person, with bad self-esteem,
and depression, who hurts everyone around her, instead of some rainbow-farting
angel. Well, she doesn’t exactly say
it, but let’s face it: the number of times per week I showed up at her cash
toting bags of junk, manically shuffling for change, making it clear to any bystander
that I was on my way to a party of one binge fest, proves that life under this
skin is the very definition of torment.It was in moments like those that I wished I were dead, and moments like
right now, heading back out into the scary, scary world just because there was
nowhere else to go.

I
hiked up the flights of stairs as quickly as I could, but not fast enough to
make me all red and sweaty (I don’t need more ugly on me, thank you very much),
and shuffled into my class right before the bell rang. I spent the rest of my
World of Today class praying she wouldn’t call on me like she had a habit of
doing, without my permission (The nerve!). It was this demonic app some of my
teachers had discovered that randomly selected a student’s name to answer a question;
an anxiety-afflicted child’s nightmare. It ran over each name, teasing us, like
some sadistic game show, and if it landed on my own, the cynical ding of the
bell unleashed the wrath of the big, embarrassed dragon, crawling up my face,
burning it to a crisp. But today was apparently a lucky Monday, as I walked out
of there scorch-free.

I saw my friends down the hall, and called out their
names: «Jessie! Jessie! Mel! Chris!», but in vain, no one turned around, except
onlookers, their mocking faces smirking and judging me, with their friends
right by their side. Dear students of this God-forsaken school, I’m really not going to miss any of you.

Back
at my locker, I joined the aforementioned friends, trying as best as I could to
casually join their conversation. Like always, however, I felt this thick gap
between us, like I was floating in a haze far, far away from their reality. I
couldn’t relate to what they were saying, I just felt off, like my body or my
mind didn’t belong with those of other teenagers, the non-disfigured ones
anyways.